


Silver As The Moons, Golden Like The Sun

by shellfishDimes



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dreams, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 11:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: When Hadrian opens his eyes in his dreams, he expects Samothes. He expects the dry heat of the forge, his ring afire on his finger. He clenches his fist preemptively, fingernails digging into his palm. Anticipating a burn that doesn't come.The ring is cool like the moonlight that flows through the tall arches of the tower and caresses Hadrian's face.Somewhere outside, he can hear the sea. But in here, the only sound is the licking flames of candlelight and the whisper of silks as Samot shifts in his throne.It feels like Hadrian just noticed him and like he'd always been looking at him.





	Silver As The Moons, Golden Like The Sun

When Hadrian opens his eyes in his dreams, he expects Samothes.

He expects the dry heat of the forge, his ring afire on his finger. He clenches his fist preemptively, fingernails digging into his palm. Anticipating a burn that doesn't come.

The ring is cool like the moonlight that flows through the tall arches of the tower and caresses Hadrian's face.

Somewhere outside, he can hear the sea. But in here, the only sound is the licking flames of candlelight and the whisper of silks as Samot shifts in his throne.

It feels like Hadrian just noticed him and like he'd always been looking at him.

The throne is white ivory with cushions of green velvet, raised on a dais high enough that Hadrian has to raise his chin just a fraction to continue looking at Samot's face. As he steps closer, he sees that the feet of the throne end in wolf paws, and when Samot moves his hand, yellow sapphires glint in the ivory heads of wolves on the throne's arms. They're looking right at him.

Samot is looking at the wine glass in his hand. He holds the stem delicately, swirling the liquid until it wets the sides, almost spilling over the brim, but his tongue catches it before it can. 

He sips the wine, and Hadrian stops, a spear's throw away from the foot of the dais.

"What is it you want?" Samot asks. And before Hadrian can reply, Samot looks at him, and his words die on his lips. "Answers?" Samot raises his eyebrows, like Hadrian had said something. "A good night's sleep? Peace of mind?" He brings the glass to his lips again, and snorts with laughter. Even that sounds refined. "If wishes were horses, my dear paladin." On his lips, the word sounds like something else.

Hadrian rolls his shoulders. Something in his back cracks. The moonlight crawls across the floor.

There's a footstool at the bottom of Samot's throne. He's wearing slippers of silk that hug his feet like a lover's hands.

"I didn't _ask_ to come here," says Hadrian.

"What do you think prayer is?" Samot asks, like it's a counterquestion to something Hadrian had asked. "Clasping your hands together, kneeling and reciting words your betters taught you?" His hair slides off his shoulders when he shakes his head. The curve of his neck and his collarbone are effulgent in the light. "Prayer is in how you swing your sword, or don't." He readjusts his robe — a seam straightens, a fold creases. Hadrian has never seen fabric that fine, just like he's never felt moonlight that cold. "It's your hands around his throat and the way his neck cracked in the empty room." 

"What do you want from me?" Hadrian asks. He wants to wrap his cloak tighter around himself. He wants to throw it off.

"What do you want from _yourself?"_ Samot throws back before Hadrian's question can even finish echoing around the hall. Yellow eyes flash on the throne, like the glint of fire on the blade of a sword. "Whose fire are you defending?"

"His, always," says Hadrian, but the echoes throw back: _yours, yours, yours._

Samot considers him. The candle flame bends, throwing shadows across his face, across the ivory throne. The wolves seem to move their heads.

"I am Hadrian, Sword of Samothes, Defender of the Undying Fire, Officer of the Order of the Eternal Princes." He pulls out his sword as he talks. "I worship His sun, I defend His light, I keep the flames of His fire alive." He shouts it, wanting his words to echo back to him with twice as much strength, but it's like shouting into a blanket. He sounds like a child trying to reason with the monsters under his bed.

Even in this silver light, his sword is golden. He can't remember what that means.

"You haven't been only his for a while," says Samot. 

When Hadrian tears his eyes away from the gold of his sword — the colour of Samot's hair, of the sun Samothes put in the sky — Samot is still studying him, head cocked, eyes sharp. Something in his expression puts Hadrian in mind of the portrait Arrell made.

And in Samot's lap, supine, lies Ephrim. His head cradled in the crook of Samot's arm, he looks to be dreaming, lips parted slightly. His hair falls from his face, exposing every plane in the stark moonlight. His arm hangs over the side of the chair, fingers almost touching the floor. His face is angled towards Samot, but Samot holds him so that his body is turned towards Hadrian. An offering. A temptation.

Hadrian closes his eyes against it. His faith has always been strong, it has always endured. As it has not faltered in waking, it will not falter in this dream. He hopes that the vision will disappear when he opens his eyes. That he'll be back at the campfire, awake and ready to take the next watch, and that the winter air will chase away the last of the tresses of sleep. 

His eyes open. Samot has brought his glass of wine to Ephrim's lips, and Hadrian watches Ephrim's throat move as he drinks. When he drains the glass, he sucks the last drops of wine on his lips past his teeth. The hilt of Hadrian's sword is slick with sweat in his grip.

The glass falls to the floor and rolls to land at Hadrian's feet, clicking against the toes of his boots.

He notices that the fur on Ephrim's collar is different. Not a red fox — a white wolf. 

"I wonder if you remember how it feels, belonging to one alone," says Samot. "You want to think of your wife in your arms and your god in your heart," he says, and Hadrian watches, transfixed, as his fingers draw idle patterns on Ephrim's thigh, further and further up, "and not of the prince in your bed, between your legs."

Ephrim turns his head to look at Hadrian. His eyes are half-lidded, and the Ephrim who Hadrian knows has never looked at him like this. He chuckles, breathless and soft, when Samot's hand dips between where his thighs meet. 

"Hadrian," he says, and the ring on Hadrian's finger doesn't feel as cold. The moonlight caressing his face doesn't feel as chilling. He doesn't say anything else. His arm reaches for Hadrian across the hall. Hadrian sees his fingers twitch almost imperceptibly when Samot's hand finds its way under his shirt. He wants to put those fingers in his mouth. 

"We've always served the same lord," Ephrim says as Samot bows his head to kiss his neck. The blonde waves of his hair spill over Ephrim's chest like a curtain of light, and Ephrim's lips part in a sigh, but he's still looking at Hadrian.

Hadrian lowers his sword.

Candlelight reflects off the blade, and for a moment, it looks like Ephrim is wearing a golden mask. Hadrian remembers the tower on the sea where he first saw that mask, but in a moment, it passes, and Ephrim's face is bare again.

Hadrian walks forward until he's a stone's throw away, at the foot of the dais. The length of a sword away. He places his weapon on the steps, and the blade makes no sound when it touches the floor. He walks forward until he's the length of an arm away, and he doesn't have to look up to meet Samot's eyes anymore. This close, they're blue like the night sky outside. This close, he can see Ephrim's chest move with shallow breaths.

He takes Ephrim's hand. He kneels, because it's the only thing he can do.

"Ah," says Samot, and the moonlight is like his breath on the back of Hadrian's neck. "You know where you belong." 

And the echoes throw back: _his, his, his._

Hadrian kisses the ring on Ephrim's finger, warm like early spring sunshine. Ephrim's hand cups his cheek, and Hadrian turns his head, catching his thumb between his lips. He closes his eyes, and lets his tongue wrap around it. He imagines it's something else, and he wants to stay on his knees.

"Hadrian," Ephrim whispers, like silk sliding across bare skin. Like wolf fur hugging his throat.

The candle flames roar, and Hadrian wakes with a start, gasping for breath. It's too hot in his armour and furs. The inside of his breeches is sticky and wet, and his heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hadrian?" Throndir looks at him across the dying campfire, and Hadrian is grateful for the length of his hauberk and the dark. "Are you… alright?"

Hadrian grabs a handful of snow and rubs his cheeks with it, wishing they'd stop burning. "Fine," he says, and he doesn't sound like himself.

"Do you want me to take the next watch as well?" Throndir asks. "I can if you're not feeling okay." Next to him, Kodiak woofs softly.

"I'll take it. You get some rest," says Hadrian. He shifts uncomfortably on his mat, praying for Throndir to fall asleep soon so he can change into a dry pair of breeches.

The moonlight peeks through the trees, and glints off the blade of his sword.

**Author's Note:**

> Samot's throne is based on [an ivory throne](https://www.royalcollection.org.uk/collection/1561/throne-and-footstool) owned by Queen Victoria. 
> 
> thanks for reading! one day I'll write an E tagged fic where they actually fuck and no weird religious bullshit happens, maybe?


End file.
